I wet the bed when I was a little kid. I wet the bed almost every night and I was beat with a belt for something that I had no control over. I was born with a birth defect in my bladder. I had major surgery when I was six years old, but even after surgery I still wet the bed and I still got beat. I lived in fear.
I lived in fear of my mother finding out that I had wet the bed, so I would get up in the middle of the night and get towels and clean sheets and change my bed. It was a nightmare to be embarrassed and humiliated by my mother. She would haul my mattress outside on the front porch for the whole neighborhood to see. She seem to take pleasure in hurting me. She would scream and cuss at me. She married Bill, our second step-father because I needed surgery and he had insurance. I was a very angry girl due to the abuse from my mother. Bill stayed about a year and then they divorced.
She did not let up even when the doctor explained that I had no control and could not help myself. I felt she thought I could control it. She would wake me up and insist that I go to the bathroom. Part of the problem was I could not go because I was so tensed up and then when I would go to sleep and relax, then I would wet my bed. Of course the tension in our house was so thick...barely palpable. My mother was in my face all the time about this problem. I felt like I was her scapegoat. She was a bully.
I was never allowed to spend the night out because of this problem. On the few occasions I did spend the night out, I had to take this huge, ugly plastic sheet to put under the sheets in case I had an accident. Eventually, I stopped going to my daddy's home because his new wife did not like the bed wetting. I felt so bad about myself and to add insult to injury there was my mother's never ending torture. She seemed to take great joy in destroying my self esteem. One thing I made up my mind to do was not to show any fear or tears or the fact that she hurt me. I thought I could beat her at her own game, but little did I realize that she really did a number on me and I was desperately screwed up.
For the next twelve years I spent every Friday afternoon being dilated at the urologists office. For those of you that have never experienced this, well it hurts, it's embarrassing, and then the doctor puts this fluid in your bladder and you pee a funny color. I was in and out of the hospital several times. FYI, anything involving the bladder or kidneys hurts. Big needles to this day scare the heck out of me.
I was never allowed to swim in public water or the ocean because infection was too great a risk. I felt singled out at school because I had to drink eight glasses of water and take twenty horse pills a day. Some of my teachers understood , but some did not and I would wet my panties because I was not allowed to go to the restroom. I would rebel and not take my meds and hide them. I was beat for that. I could make no correct decision that pleased mother. I felt like she hated me.
So when my son kept wetting the bed beyond the normal age, I just acted like it was no big deal so he would not feel bad. I never told him how I was treated. I just expressed my love to him and eventually he outgrew it. How hard was that? For me not hard at all because Love conquers all.
My mother died when I was thirty-seven years old and that night I wet my bed. Just a little bit, but none the less, I still wet my pants. I woke up in a panic; for a moment I regressed to my childhood, then I realized where I was. This freaked me out that I did that. Where did that come from? Maybe, I was finally through with her bullying and the abuse and I could finally just relax. Maybe, I just wet myself to say I am done with you mother. I loved her and yet I hated her at the same time.